If I Should Die Before I Wake
by Jeniveela
Summary: Legolas staggered slightly on the spot, his Vilya-blue eyes wide and incredulous with horrified shock as he clutched his right hand to his chest where a thick, black Uruk arrow shaft protruded, the arrowhead buried deep within his chest...*CHAP. TWO UP!*
1. Chapter One

**Title:** If I Should Die Before I Wake…

**Author: **Jeniveela

**Category:** Angst/Drama

**Summary: **Legolas is severely wounded in the battle at Helm's Deep and lays dying because of a poisoned Orc arrow.

**Rating: PG-13** For battle sequences, blood, and angst…lots and lots of angst…

A/N: Yes, this is one of my rare, serious LOTR fics, and I am still working on getting the characters perfectly in character. It may be the only serious LOTR fic I ever write. Yes, it is a movie-verse fic, but it does incorporate some characters not mentioned in the movies, like Legolas's father, King Thranduil. This is NOT SLASH because personally, I dislike slash intensely (no offense to my slash fan fic writer readers). Yes, there is quite a bit of blood in this fic…especially a certain Elf's blood…

Anyway, please, please, please read and review…

~*~*~*~*

"_DAGO HAN!_"

Legolas swiftly reached back and drew another arrow from his quiver, setting it to bowstring, drawing the string taut, sighting down the long, narrow shaft for his target, the Uruk-hai on a suicide mission as it ran for the drain of Helm's Deep, a crackling, sizzling torch of white, blazing light in hand. 

The Elven arrow hissed through the air like a hoard of angry wasps as it was released from the bowstring, flying straight for its intended target, the Uruk's thick, exposed neck.

A grim, solemn look of satisfaction came upon the Elven archer's fair face as his keen eyes saw the arrow hit its target through the dark, lashing rain. His satisfaction lasted for only a fleeting moment however, as he saw the evil beast lurch and stumble, but keep on staggering for the drain of Helm's Deep.

"_DAGO HAN, LEGOLAS! DAGO HAN!"_

Aragorn's fierce, desperate shout resounded over the thunderous, chaotic, horrifying sounds of battle, the sounds of bloodthirsty battle cries ringing out amongst the bloodcurdling, agonized screams of the wounded as the Elven archer reached back to pull another arrow from his quiver, notch it to the bow, draw it, and release it with one swift, smooth, deft movement.

He saw the arrow hiss as it sped through the air, again finding its target in the Uruk-hai's exposed, thick, fleshy neck, and again he watched in utter despair and horror, numb with shock, as the beast stumbled and continued to stagger on, the deadly, blazing beacon of light still held above its ugly head as it lumbered doggedly on.

Finally, when it was right at the foot of Helm's gate, the hideous beast stumbled for the last time and fell heavily, bringing the blazing, malevolently hissing torch down with it right into the mouth of the drain-

Then the world exploded around him…

_~*~*~*~*_

_BOOM!_

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, watched in utter horror as Helm's Gate suddenly ceased to be in a great explosion loud enough to drown out the roaring argument of the rumbling thunder overhead and the deafening discord of sound of the fierce battle raging on around him. The explosion sent Men, Elves, solid stone, and other debris flying left and right into the air, leaving a hideous, gaping gash in the hard, solemn face of the great stone fortress that was Helm's Deep, a gash that was immediately filled by Orcs and Uruk-hai flooding into Helm's Deep with their evil weapons and battering rams, weapons that were made in the flame of Isengard and rams that were carved of the wood of Fangorn Forest.

He heard a hoarse, startled exclamation from his Dwarven companion Gimli, son of Glòin, after he had cut down an oncoming Orc with his stout axe and had whirled around just in time to see Helm's Gate fall.

"What happened?" Gimli roared over the cacophony of battle as Aragorn instinctively started charging for the fallen Gate to stop the Saruman's evil army from storming the fortress, Andùril drawn and gleaming in the devious, inconsistent light of battle.

"Come, Gimli!" Aragorn called urgently over his shoulder in short response as he ran for the fallen Gate.

The stout, burly Dwarf grunted as he grasped his axe in both hands at the ready to cut down any Orc or Uruk-hai that got in his way as he plodded after his human companion as quickly as he could go, both brawny arms swinging at his sides as he tried in vain to keep up with Aragorn.

"Just keep breathing," Gimli muttered to himself through clenched teeth as he trudged stubbornly after Aragorn, trying to avoid tripping over any unceremoniously piled up Orc carcasses scattered haphazardly across the desolate battle field where the war still raged on around them. "Breathing…" –pant, pant- "Yes, that's the key…Just breathe…"

~*~*~*~*

_I've failed them…_

That was the first thought that flashed through the Elf's mind as he regained consciousness, the dusk and gloom clearing from his sharp sight both mentally and physically as he came to. Some of the heavy, dark clouds of dust were being blown away by the shrilly whistling wind that whipped the dark, lashing rain almost sideways. The shroud of darkness also cleared before his eyes mentally as he awoke from his momentary unconsciousness to see a sight that was none too welcoming.

As white lightning struck somewhere nearby, crackling and rumbling like a demon laughing malevolently at Legolas's great misfortune, it briefly illuminated the towering, malicious figure standing before him in a blinding flash. 

It was an Orc, baring its ugly, crooked, yellowed fangs in a terrifying, crooked, demented, cruel grin as it sneered down at the Elven archer before raising its crudely made blade with a jagged edge-

Acting with quick battle reflexes, Legolas threw himself sideways, rolling just out of the way of the Orc's wicked blade as it came whirling down, burying its jagged edge deep into the muddy ground. With cat-like grace and agility, the Elf jumped up onto his feet, drawing one of his daggers from its sheathe on his back during the few precious seconds while the ugly beast of Saruman snarled viciously, cursing in the crude Orc language, as it pulled its blade from the mud. When the creature had turned its foul head back to face Legolas, it did not even have the time to raise its blade for a second go at the Elf before it found an Elven dagger buried in its exposed throat.

As the vile creature collapsed, Legolas leaned over and grimly jerked his blade back out of its slashed neck. After he drew the dagger, stained black with filthy, stinking Orc blood, he turned around just in time to see another Orc charge him, lunging at him and snarling, blade drawn and ready to strike.

Legolas threw his dagger, sending the blade whirling end over end, before it came to rest squarely in the Orc's throat, abruptly stopping it in its tracks and sending the beast crashing to its knees before collapsing to the ground. Again, the Elven archer leaned down to pluck his dagger from the monster's neck solemnly and sheathed it, switching to his bow. Lots of knife work to be done here, and all because of his fault…

_You failed them…_The depressing thought echoed in his mind, taunting him from the furthest depths of his subconscious, mentally torturing him. 

And he knew it was true. If he had brought the suicidal Uruk-hai down like he was supposed to, none of this would have happened. Helm's Gate would have never come down, Saruman's evil army wouldn't be storming Helm's Deep right now and slaughtering innocent Men and Elves all around him, and the people of Rohan would have stood a better (although still not great) chance against Saruman's powerful army. If Helm's Deep fell and the innocent people of Rohan slaughtered, he knew it would be in part thanks to him and what he did…or rather, what he didn't do by not killing the Uruk and failing his companions and the people of Rohan…

The cold, steely rain pouring down upon the Men, Elves, and Orcs fighting for all they were worth around the Elf mingled with the angry, hot tears that fell from his cerulean blue eyes as he cast about, looking for someone he could help, perhaps some Man who was fighting a losing battle against an Orc or one of his own kin who was struggling…someone…anyone…

It was then that his keen Elven eyes spotted his companions running through the newly opened gap in Helm's Gate, Gimli with his axe drawn and Aragorn with Andùril drawn and gleaming even in the dull, dreary, black rain that pelted down mercilessly from above.

It was also then that he saw the Orc that suddenly lunged out from the swarming mob of Men and Orcs, lunging right for Legolas's nearest companion, Gimli.

"GIMLI! LOOK OUT!" the Elven archer bellowed in alarm as he reached for an arrow and notched it to his bowstring.

The burly Dwarf swung around to face the oncoming aggressor, startled, but prepared. His axe whistled through the air, cleaving through the Orc's armor into its ugly flesh. A second later, an Elven arrow was buried in the Orc's throat before it fell to the ground, just another carcass to be added to the pile left for the carrion eaters.

In that precious second that the Elf was distracted, he failed to notice the dark figure malevolently creeping down a pile of debris from the Gate just above Legolas, a hideous, heavy, clumsy, Orc bow in its claws with a thick, dark shaft notched to the string…

It was only a second later after Legolas allowed himself a small, grim smile after seeing his stout, yet brave, Dwarven friend axe the Orc and seeing his own arrow find its target that the Elven archer turned around on a strange impulse-

And found himself looking up at an Uruk-hai glaring down at him with evil glee like a gargoyle as it drew back the string on the bow…and released. 

"_LEGOLAS!_"

For the three companions, time seemed to freeze for one moment. The fierce sea of battle tossing them in its dark, relentless waves of oncoming enemies seemed to suddenly fall uncannily calm and still, like the calm before the storm. 

They fell momentarily deaf to the raucous, horrifying sounds of war-the fierce, piercing, reverberating battle cries, the terrified, agonizing screams of the wounded that were abruptly strangled in their throats by death's icy grip, and the urgent commands bellowed up and down the battlefield both in the common tongue of Men and Elvish.

They fell temporarily blind to the even more horrifying sight of war all around them- mutilated carcasses of friend and foe alike scattered undignified in small piles, the wounded screaming for mercy, for death, and ruthless Uruk-hai cutting down Men where they stood, and Uruk-hai falling in return- except for the most horrifying sight to them.

Legolas staggered slightly on the spot, his Vilya-blue eyes wide and incredulous with horrified shock as he clutched his right hand to his chest where a thick, ugly, black Uruk arrow shaft protruded, the arrowhead buried deep within his chest so that only a few inches of the black, thick shaft was visible.

Aragorn and Gimli watched in the icy, numbing grip of paralyzing shock as they saw the Elven archer's fair face, wet with the heavy-falling rain, crumple and become twisted in a mask of agony as he clutched at the arrow buried in his chest in vain. 

Slowly, ever so agonizingly slowly, he stumbled and fell down on one knee before the enemy who had wounded him. Then, with that same helpless, shocked, anguished, and agonized expression frozen on his face in the cold, dead rain that fell from the gray, dreary havens that looked on mournfully, Legolas collapsed softly sideways, his hands clasped to his wound, as he was prostrated helplessly before the evil Uruk who had switched from a bow to an axe, a cruel, ill-made, yet deadly axe that it swung down at the fallen Elf.

"_LEGOLAS!_"

Gimli and Aragorn's desperate, horror-filled cry tore through the air and echoed in the still, dead air of battle as they rushed their companion's aggressor at once, blinded by their rage to see anyone or anything else that might stand in their way as they charged the Uruk-hai with their weapons brandished. In that moment, all they saw was their wounded Elven companion lying helplessly on the ground, dying, with an arrow shaft buried in his chest and that evil Uruk-hai with its malevolent, twisted, yellowed grin as it bore its axe down at the Elf's head-

Before an Uruk axe could hew an Elven neck, Andùril's death-tipped blade came whirling around through the air, hissing like a serpent set to strike. Aragorn's blade made a complete circuit as it slashed through the air, intercepting an Uruk neck as it made that full circle, sending the Uruk's still grinning, ugly, black head flying as it parted from its owner's shoulders.

At the same time, Gimli's axe came swinging around mercilessly, the axe head biting deep through the Uruk's armor into its hideous, stinking flesh. The axe nearly cleaved the wicked beast in half and would have definitely killed the Uruk if Aragorn's Andùril had not parted it with its head a second before.

As Gimli wreched his axe from the monster's body with a grunt, Aragorn kicked the vile, headless corpse away to go join its horrid, slain kin in a reeking pile to be left to the mercy of the carrion eaters.

The enemy slain, Aragorn and Gimli turned back to the more important matter, Legolas, who was lying among the dead and wounded.

Aragorn dropped to his knees in the mud beside their fallen companion while Gimli knelt over the fallen Elf, his axe still in hand.

"Legolas," Aragorn said quietly, his low voice trembling with fear as he cast his eyes down to the arrow shaft sunk deep in the Elf's flesh. 

Crimson red blood spread across the front of Legolas' green tunic, the blood blossoming like a red rose opening its petals in summer, staining the White Tree depicted on his tunic a deep, rich, deadly red.

"You pointy-eared fool!" Gimli growled, his usually gruff voice suddenly choked and broken. "You told me to look out, and you weren't even watching for yourself! What's the good of having sharp eyes if you don't even use them to look out for yourself? That's what you get, you foolish Elf! That's-" Suddenly, Gimli broke off, his gruff voice choked as he cried out, "Oh please, Legolas, don't die! It's all my fault! Please don't die!"

The Elf's eyes opened slowly, painfully. They were hazy and clouded over, the brilliant spark of vitality that had once been in them shrouded by the dimming veil of death coming upon him. Through dull, glazed over, half-closed eyes, he glanced down at his front, watching his own blood spread from the wound across the front of his tunic. His long, slender hand shakily, gently touched his own bleeding, painfully heaving chest, coming away with his deathly pale skin turned red with his own blood…

"Blood," Legolas whispered hoarsely as he watched a few crimson drops drip from his long fingertips back onto his blood soaked tunic. "My own blood…"

"Legolas, lie still. We're going to get you inside and get this arrow out of you. You'll be fine, _mellonamin_*_, you'll be fine…" Aragorn murmured fearfully, his own voice trembling as he tried to reassure them all._

Before he could do anything, however, Legolas raised a trembling hand dripping with blood to stop him. 

"It's…my fault…" Legolas said as he gasped sharply for breath, hissing with pain. Crimson blood blossomed in his mouth, a red trickle running down his pale, damp skin from the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth in pain before murmuring, "I…deserve to…die…Forgive me…Gimli…Aragorn…I failed you…_Amin_ ikotane hiraetha*…_"_

"That isn't true, you pointy-eared fool!" Gimli cried fiercely, his furious tears mixing with the icy rain lashing down from above. "That isn't true, and you know it!"

"Gimli," Aragorn said quietly, his voice low and urgent as he placed a hand on his Dwarven friend's shoulder to calm him while they both stared helplessly at their dying friend, "Legolas is fading from us quickly. The arrow shaft is buried deep within his chest. If the arrow head breaks off, it may pierce a vital organ and kill him, or he may bleed to death quickly. We must get him inside if we are to remove it." Turning to stare the Dwarf in the eye, he said urgently, "You must clear the way for me. I will carry Legolas."

As Aragorn knelt to lift the wounded Elf, Gimli asked him anxiously, "And then once we remove the arrow, he'll be all right, won't he? He'll live, right?"

Aragorn had no time to answer at that moment for an Orc came charging upon the three companions standing still amidst the fierce battle, its flat, jagged, crude blade drawn. It didn't get far, however, before Gimli's axe came swinging around, cutting a deep gash in the vile creature's abdomen, spilling its burning, black blood and ending its life.

As the dead Orc fell, Gimli whirled his axe, its blade stained black with Orc blood, menacingly above his head, a powerful, burning bloodlust coursing through his veins. Glancing back at Aragorn, his beady, dark eyes gleaming with the light of battle, he declared boldly, "Then I will lead the way. No Orc shall be left standing if it comes in the way of the axe of Gimli, son of Glòin!"

"Indeed, _mellonamin. Indeed," Aragorn replied solemnly as he knelt to lift Legolas. He slid his arm gently beneath the Elf's back and slid his other arm under the Elf's legs as he lifted the tall, limp form from the ground, always mindful of the arrow so as not to drive it in deeper._

Once he had lifted Legolas, who was surprisingly light considering how tall he was, he gave the nod to Gimli.

"Lead on, my friend. Lead on," he said.

~*~*~*~*

_*Amin ikotane hiraetha- _I am so sorry.

*_Mellonamin_- My friend.

So what did you think of that? Was it good? Was it terrible? Do you think I am horribly, sadistically mean to Legolas and should go see Dr. Aynut to find out exactly what's wrong with me? (See 'Legolas Sees a Psychiatrist' for details.)

Well, then please tell me in a nice review! Constructive criticism is appreciated, and so are compliments. Flames are…okay…Chapter two will be up when I find time to write it and post it. 

Thanks! ^_^

~*_Jeniveela_*~


	2. Chapter Two

Hello, readers, this is Jeniveela again. Yes, I actually haven't died, vanished off the face of the earth, got abducted by aliens, got trample by a herd of stampeding Oliphaunts, fell into the fires of Mount Doom, been killed by outraged Legolas fangirls, or generally met my doom, which would prevent me from writing, etc., etc…

I'm so sorry that I had to take the second chapter down and edit it and revise it again before I posted it. I just felt that perhaps I should redo it before I posted it to better please my readers. I'll try not to do something like that again…^_^;

Anyway, I have a short, extra author's note chapter dedicated just to my reviewers and thanking them for their reviews of the first chapter mostly because the list is rather too long to put in this chapter and because I now have an extra chapter that I have no idea what to do with…If you would like to read the thank you note I wrote to you, then please continue to the next chapter after you read this chapter.

A special, big thank you goes out to Arwyn TK for offering me some advice and providing me with medical information for this chapter as well. Thank you very much! Your contribution to this fanfic was very much appreciated, Arwyn!

And as always, please, please, please read and review!

**_This chapter is dedicated to the following reviewers of the previous chapter:_**

**_Arwyn_****_ TK, Goma-Ryu, Stephanie-Lou, Cheysuli, White Wolf, Lauren, Kirsten, Amir-magic-ed, Corinn and Eomer, Szhismine, Gemstone, Skye, Star, Aislynn Crowdaughter, Fairylady, KumQuat, Legolasluva, Sweetjewelofthenight, LAXgirl, Lantarmiel, Criket, Fantasia, Shanka, Shandrial, and Eleclyn Starmaker…_**

****

**_~*~*~*~*_**

**_Meanwhile…_**

_"I fear neither death nor pain."_

_"What do you fear, my lady?"_

_"A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire…"_

The Lady Eowyn's cerulean blue eyes flickered open in the dim, unsteady light of the caves, but she immediately closed them again and drew her shawl closer around her, seeing that there was nothing for her to see than fear, pure, natural, utter fear…

Even as she murmured soothing reassurances to the trembling, weeping, shrieking masses of women, children, elders, sick, and injured, she knew that her comforting words of hope, even if it was a false hope, did little to calm them or give them courage. They were all drowning in a cold, bitter, consuming sea of fear, too far gone to be rescued from its icy, hopeless grasp. The shield maiden of Rohan was the only one who still had her head above the tumultuous, dark waves of fear, though it was a fight to keep her head up and not allow herself to be washed under its sweeping, powerful, condemning waves like so many others had…

"_I fear neither pain nor death…_"

And it was true. Èowyn feared neither pain nor death even now in the darkest hour of her people. If the foul beasts of Saruman managed to- Valar forbid –break down the gate and storm the caves where the women, elders, children, ill, and wounded hid right at that very moment, she would have faced them head on though she was unarmed and was only one against thousands. The brave lady of Rohan would have gone down fighting to her death to protect her people even if it was an attempt made all in vain. It was better than screaming for mercy, weeping, or trying to run when there was nowhere to go like she knew many of the people would do if- no, _when the Orcs broke through into the fortress. After all, she feared neither pain nor death…_

But if this was true, then why did she feel so scared right now?

"_What do you fear, my lady?"_

_"A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire…"_

A cage…She realized she was in a cage right now. Though the caves were an unconventional cage by all means, it was indeed a cage. Instead of bars of solid steel, this cage had walls of solid rock, thick, solid walls, walls that could not be broken down even by a score of the Dwarf master Gimli's kin if they worked for an entire fortnight with their strongest picks…or so she thought. 

Instead of a key locking them away and keeping them trapped within this cage was the fact that there was no way out of these caves, leastways none that she knew of.

It was the fact that she was trapped within a cage that scared Èowyn the most, both a mental and physical cage. Physically she was trapped inside the caves with her people, the very caves that were meant to protect them that would be their demise. Mentally, she was trapped inside a cage because she was afraid of how much longer she'd be trapped so helplessly within this cage, slowly going mad with grief as her people wept around her and listened to the horrifying sounds of the battle going on overhead, the desperate commands being shouted back and forth in a last attempt to keep the army of Saruman from completely overrunning the fortress of Helm's Deep, and the vicious, rasping snarls of the Orcs as they tried to break down the gates with battering rams.

She was so sick with fear of this terrible cage and this awful waiting, waiting for their inevitable doom to come to them and wondering _when it would come and wondering __how quickly they'd be killed and wondering, just wondering _how_ much longer it would be until they were killed…The thought of waiting in this terrible, tense situation was almost worse than the thought of being killed because the waiting was so long and so drawn out whereas death would be so quick and would end this pain, this suffering, this terrible, nerve-wracking waiting that she thought would kill her before the Orcs did-_

_BANG_!

The caverns suddenly erupted in terrified shrieks and shouts, shrill, frantic, hysterical cries of, "They've broken in! They've broken in!" and "They've come! We're going to die! We're all going to die!"

Cold, blood-chilling dread in her frantically beating heart, Èowyn rose to her feet swiftly to face their adversary, though it seemed to take an eternity to her. Somewhere in the back of her numbed mind, she registered the prickling, eerie sensation of goose bumps rising on her arms, and she knew it wasn't because of the chilly, clammy atmosphere of the dreary caves. 

Though she was not heard above the clamor of the frantic, terrified shrieking and horrified sobbing, she murmured a last reassurance to the women sitting on the ground around her as she tensed, waiting for the beasts to come down the stairs into the caves. If she was going to meet her death, she would do it head on.

"_I fear neither death nor pain…_"

"I fear neither death nor pain," Èowyn whispered aloud to herself as she tensed, waiting, waiting, and watching the tall, long shadows thrown against the wall of the cave bobble as they slunk down the wall of the cave as their owners came down the stairs into the dark depths of the cave…

When the intruders had nearly reached the threshold of the cave, her quick eyes darted around the cavern as she made a visual sweep of her surroundings where she would fight her last battle, looking for anything to aide her in this fight, anything that could be used as a shield or a weapon, anything…

The quick, heavy footsteps of the intruders on the damp stone of the carved steps leading down into the dark, ominous depths of the caves increased in volume, echoing as they made their way down the last few steps and into the caves. At the same time, Èowyn grabbed a torch from an iron bracket on the cave wall on an impulse, brandishing the flaming piece of wood high above her crown of golden tresses as she called out to her enemies. She cried over the clamor of terrified shrieks in a loud, imperious voice like that of a warrior who was issuing a challenge to an opponent, "Who's there?! Come and face me like a warrior, beasts of Saruman!"

A strangled battle cry, half shout and half sob, burst forth from her clenched mouth as she sprang at the intruders as they descended down into the caves, appearing suddenly on the landing of the stone steps. She flung herself at them, brandishing the torch menacingly at them, ready to fight to her death-

Then she stumbled to a halt before the intruders, the torn battle cry suddenly catching in her throat as her sapphire blue eyes, blazing with a fierce battle lust born of desperation, fell upon the faces of the 'intruders'.

"Lord Aragorn…And Dwarf master Gimli," she whispered hoarsely as her eyes traveled from the Ranger's own dark eyes down to the Dwarf's beady eyes. No sooner had she greeted them than she found all the questions she had been pondering over the last few, long, long hours rushing out before she could stop herself. "What news of the battle do you bring, my lord? Has Saruman's army managed to break in? Have we been able to beat them back? How long is it until this is all over? Why-"

The sudden, breathless rush of words suddenly died on her lips as she paused for a moment to catch her breath and noticed how strangely grave and silent Aragorn and Gimli were, Gimli standing strangely silent for once behind his human companion with his stout axe, its hefty blade still dripping dark Orc blood. Then her eyes trailed down to the limp, sodden figure carried in Lord Aragorn's arms. She stared in frozen horror, the sigh of relief that had been forming in her throat suddenly turned into a soft, shuddering gasp as she observed the figure in the flickering, unsteady light of the torch which cast eerie shadows on the figure's pale, bloody face. 

A cold, sickly fist of fear suddenly clenched around her heart as she realized that this figure of a dying warrior was Lord Aragorn's Elven companion, the silent archer. The Elf's fair face had gone a deathly, ashen pale, the color of the dead. His golden hair was sodden and plastered to his damp flesh by the pelting, steely rain and was turned a deep, dark, rusty red where blood had spilled onto it…

Èowyn felt faint as her eyes, wide with shock, traveled from the Elven archer's deathly pale, bloodstained face down to his tunic, which was almost completely dyed scarlet with his own blood that seeped from the gash where the head of the thick, black, ugly Uruk shaft was buried within his chest…

Èowyn shuddered slightly as Aragorn's eyes locked on hers. If she was an average mortal woman, she would have shrunk back from the horrifying sight of the grim results of battle, the cost of a person's life, but Èowyn was no mere average mortal woman. She was a daughter of kings, and a warrior besides that in her own right. Being a warrior, she knew that death was inevitable in battle; that was the whole point of battle, wasn't it? To kill people on the opposing side and to try to win the battle which risking your own life in the process of doing so. You just had to face death like anything else in battle- head on. 

"My lady, my companion is dying," Aragorn said, his voice low and urgent, "is there a place where I could tend to him?"

Her expression was indecipherable, her face wrought with deep lines of anxiety as she answered him not, but turned to look over the dark, churning sea of women and children, her desperate, cerulean blue eyes straining in the dim, flickering torchlight as she searched, looking for a relatively unoccupied space in the crowded, dreary caves…

The only space in the caves that was even remotely unoccupied by the women and children of Edoras was toward the back of the caves. Though the frightened, huddled masses gradually back into the deceivingly protective, obscure depths of the caves, the people avoided that particular grim, dreary section of the cave because of the foreboding, looming shadow of imminent death that hung over that particular place like a dark, heavy shroud. Death's icy, invisible hand seemed to be lurking malevolently in the shadows, biding its time, just waiting until the Orcs had broken in to begin harvesting the life that thrived in the gloom of the caves. It was the area where the dead and dying warriors, both Men and Elves, were placed.

Yet it was not a place completely forsaken of life, for life still clung desperately even if it was a feeble attempt made all in vain to some of the injured warriors being tended by a few weary healers. It was this persistent, if weak, spark of life amongst all the death and destruction around them that drew the shield maiden's attention to the dim place at the back of the caves.

Turning back to the silent Ranger and the Dwarf, Èowyn hesitantly gestured for them to follow her as she made her way, slowly and cautiously, through the thick, dark crowd surging like a troubled sea that tossed her in its wake. Holding the flaming beacon of flickering light above her head, she peered into the darkness, searching for a clear space in the makeshift healing area. Her weary eyes roved over shadowy figures lying on pallets on the rocky floor; most of them were lying still as the stone walls around them. That was because they were dead, corpses of valiant fallen warriors who had fought to defend the people of Edoras to their deaths.

The dark, wounded figures that were not dead were clearly dying, their bruised, bleeding, and mutilated bodies suffering in death throes, even as they were tended to by a few women somewhat skilled in the art of healing. It was obvious that the dying and the dead greatly outnumbered the healers. 

Èowyn heard her fast beating, cold heart pounding in her ears, as loud and steady as the pounding of the battering rams overhead as she cast about fearfully, looking for an open place where Aragorn could tend to his wounded companion. Her distressed eyes were so distraught at the sight of the dying and the dead, most of them people she knew, people she had grown up around, that she could hardly tear her eyes away from their chillingly inert, bloody bodies.

So distracted in her silent horror was the lady of Rohan that she barely registered the seemingly faint and faraway sound of the low voice of Aragorn, heavy laden under the weight of crushing sorrow as he murmured more to himself than to anyone else, "Many are the dead and dying in this late hour of battle…So many are dead…Is Legolas to become one of them?"

A second later, she vaguely felt a gentle nudge at her side and heard a low, gruff voice muttering, "Come, milady. He's found a place…"

Torn abruptly out of her shock for one moment, Èowyn wheeled around, her eyes glimmering in the dim, flickering torchlight. Warm, hot tears were pearling in her azure blue eyes, though she set her face in a stony, fixed expression, the often-worn mask of a warrior, and refused to let the tears fall. She would not let anyone see her cry ever, not even in this late, grim hour of battle when so many people she knew were dying all around her.

_A warrior does not cry_, she told herself grimly as she mentally scolded herself. _A warrior never cries. Ever._

But it was hard not to follow her own commands when her eyes fell upon the despairingly heartrending sight that lay behind her. She saw that indeed Lord Aragorn had found a place to tend to his wounded companion near the very back of the caves, a place wrought heavy with shadows that danced malevolently like dark demons across the three figures in the haven of the shadows. The warrior of Men and the bold Dwarf knelt next to the pallet where their Elven comrade lay; his iron shoulder guards, quiver, and daggers in sheathe were disregarded on the ground next to him.  

She saw that the Ranger's face was dark and heavily lined with fatigue and anxiety, his sorrowful expression one chiseled in stone, as he closely examined his friend's life-threatening wound, Gimli peering gravely over his shoulder.

His dark eyes, gray as a stormy sea at night, examined the wound closely, searching, thinking, his steady gaze running up and down the exposed length of the thick, dark shaft lodged in the Elf's chest. At the same time, he noticed the dry, wheezing, shallow, sharp breaths he took, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he gasped for breath. As he did, he noticed how deathly pale the Elven warrior had gone except for the rusty colored blood blossoming in his mouth and the light bluish tint that had fallen upon his pale complexion, especially around his trembling, bloody lips.

As Èowyn watched him study his dying friend for a moment, she noticed how the Elf's partially closed, glassy, azure eyes stirred not, but gazed lifelessly past her, not staring at her, but staring through her. Èowyn realized grimly that she had seen the same empty, blank, glassy look in the eyes of others all too often. It was the same look that she had seen in the eyes of too many Men of Rohan that dreadful night after they had been dragged in or staggered in from the fires of battle only to collapse from incredible exhaustion and die on the spot...It was the look of death…

Finally, the shield maiden of Rohan walked forth over to the two figures crouched in the shadows, hesitant and wary as she approached the place where death's cruel, icy hand had stolen away so much life that night. She sincerely hoped that Aragorn's companion would not be claimed next in death's merciless clutch.  

She did not meet Aragorn's gaze as she placed the blazing, quietly crackling torch in an iron bracket on the cave wall. Still averting her eyes from his grim gaze, she murmured in a soft, trembling voice hardly louder than the high, gleeful shrilling of the wind outside the caves an excuse for why she had come, "It was dark over here, milord…You'll need light to work by…" As she her wary gaze fell upon the pallid, deathly face of the Elven archer, her voice was soft and cautious as she spoke, "Tell me truly, my lord…Who is he, your companion? Not a son of any mortal Man does he appear to my eyes…"

"Nay, my lady," Aragorn murmured as he closely observed his companion's grave wound. "He is Legolas Greenleaf, son of the Elven King Thranduil, of the Woodland realm…"

Èowyn then spoke no more as she beheld the Elven archer and the Ranger who stared intently at his dying companion, thinking of what he could possibly do for him in a place where there was very little to tend to him with. It was not likely that there would be an abundance of healing herbs in such a barren, bleak place, nor were there any other manners of craft which he would need to tend to such a grave wound. 

 _Well, there's only one thing you can do… the Ranger thought ruefully._

Without looking at the two anxious figures standing beside him, he said, his voice low and urgent, "Gimli, I'll need your help…"

"What about me?" Èowyn asked, her voice quiet and apprehensive as she cast her eyes down on the pallid face of the dying Elf. Unbeknownst to them, there was the slightest heated flare of restrained anger in her voice. She was tired of being ignored or pushed aside and told to flee from imminent danger because she was a woman; she would not allow herself to be sent away from a tense situation like this.

The Dùnadan's dark eyes met hers, freezing her in her place. She faltered for a minute as she was caught in the direct path of his intense, burning gaze, her blood running cold as the waters of the river Anduin. But she shied not from his unwavering gaze nor did she turn away; rather she bade herself to endure his hard, critical stare, standing stolidly and resolutely before him. Her own strong eyes locked on his and acted as a shield to an enemy's cold, cruel sword coming in for the killing blow. She did not look away until he answered her.

"You may help if you wish, milady," the Ranger answered finally. His voice was low and hard as he went on. "But you shall have to listen carefully for my companion's life may depend on both of you. I will tell you what to do in a moment."

"A Dwarf does not merely stand idly in any event while the action is going on around him," Gimli muttered under his breath discontentedly. The brazen Dwarf still held his axe, its blade black and dripping with Orc blood and grime, and Èowyn saw him as a formidable figure, stout though he was. 

His human companion answered him not, but grimly began setting to work as he did what he could for Legolas. There was a soft, malevolent hiss of cold metal on leather as Aragorn drew a dagger from the small sheathe at his belt. Eowyn's eyes widened slightly as she observed the short blade, the flickering firelight sending shadows eerily dancing over the glinting blade. She wondered what he would do with the dagger to help save his friend's life. In a second, she found out.

Grim determination in his battle-worn, hardened face, the warrior of Men knelt close to his companion's still form and used the blade to cut away the crimson-stained, blood-sodden cloth of Legolas's tunic, careful not to cut the Elf's flesh and especially careful not to jostle the dark, bloody shaft so as not to risk driving it in deeper.

Eowyn and Gimli saw him grimace as he laid aside the blood-sodden, tattered tunic. But the grave expression he wore was nothing compared to the solemn, chiseled, sorrowful expression that shadowed his face next as he spoke. The flickering torch light threw dark, sinuous shadows cascading across his worry lined face and increased the intensity of his fierce, unwavering, anxious gaze as he looked upon his dying companion, the blood-stained dagger in hand as he hesitated for a moment, thinking.

Finally, he said only seven words as a preamble for what he was about to do. Without looking at the two figures waiting tensely behind him, Aragorn murmured, "Milady, you may want to look away…" 

But the lady of Rohan could not tear her eyes away from the grim, solemn sight. She was transfixed with a subdued, horrified sort of fascination as her eyes fell upon the ashen face of the dying Elven archer. His eyes, the blue of the calm sea sparkling under dancing, glimmering, golden rays of summer sunlight, were hazy, clouded over with an eerily shiny, glossy veil of looming death and suffering, deep, deep suffering…She wondered what Lord Aragorn could possibly do to heal his companion that would frighten her?

She heard him murmur to his fallen companion in a low, sorrow stricken voice, "_Amin hiraetha, mellonamin._"

Then, clenching his teeth, Aragorn took the blade and in two swift, deft movements cut into his Elven companion's flesh, widening the gash that the arrowhead had created in his chest.

Legolas's eyes went wide with terrible, horrendous agony as he was jolted from unconsciousness by the sudden, intense pain in his chest. He muffled a torn, ragged cry of sheer agony through clenched teeth as he inhaled sharply, trying to bear the intense waves of pain that tore through his torso in vain. Each short, shallow breath he took felt like the bitter stab of a dagger biting into his chest again and again. Breathless in his torment, the Elf drifted in and out of consciousness, so he didn't hear Aragorn as he urgently beckoned Gimli and Eowyn to his side.

"Now," Aragorn said grimly, raising his voice above the shrieks and raucous of battle overhead that reached sudden and frightening crescendos frequently and erratically.  "I'll need your help. I need you to brace him while I draw out the shaft.  Just kneel down over here and hold his shoulders down so that he can't move too much. Make sure that you brace him well, for I do not wish for him to jerk away as I try to pull the arrow out or the arrow may be driven in further."

Gimli reluctantly put down his blood-stained, formidable axe for a moment before he did what his human companion bade him to, grumbling under his breath as he tried to hide his genuine concern for Legolas's life under a gruff, annoyed façade. "The Elf better be thankful for this…That stupid fool of an Elf better _live_ to be thankful for this…"

Eowyn, however, hung back hesitantly for a second, too shocked by what she had just seen the warrior of Men do to hear his urgent words. True, he had warned her to look away, and true she knew little of the mysterious craft of healing, but she still thought that cutting into his friend's flesh to make him bleed _more_ was nothing more than a savage act so cruel and senseless that it was out of her understanding. It seemed more like torture than healing to her. How would widening the gash created in his friend's chest help to save his friend's life?

A few seconds later, when she registered the distant sound of the Dùnadan's voice calling to her, she impulsively came forward, her movements slow and clumsy, as if she was walking in a dream as she came to kneel down at the head of the pallet by Gimli's side. As she brushed past Aragorn, she heard him murmur reassuringly, partially to himself and partially to her. "I had to widen the gash created in his chest first if I was to draw out the arrow more safely, milady. I had to do it…" He then suddenly looked up at her on an impulse and said, "Milady, may I have your shawl?"

When the shieldmaiden of Rohan answered him with a questioning, sidelong glance, he explained, "I need it to bandage the gash after I draw the arrow."

Eowyn nodded as she shrugged off the drab, linen shawl that she had wrapped around her arms and handed it to him; it did her little good anyway, for she shivered from an eerie chill that was not from the biting, harsh cold of the subterranean hiding place, but rather from the chill of realizing that Aragorn's companion's life was slipping away from them with each passing second. She wondered if drawing the arrow out and bandaging the grave wound would even save him, for the dying archer looked so far gone…

As she settled the confining folds of her long, drab, linen dress around her as she knelt down beside Gimli and did as Aragorn had instructed her to do, she wondered if drawing the arrow out and bandaging the grave wound would even save him, for the dying archer looked so far gone…

She prepared to brace the Elf, her slightly trembling hands placed on his bare shoulders. His pallid, clammy skin felt so cold, cold as the dead, dark stone all around them, and she could feel the outline of his bones in his lithe yet sinewy form as he shuddered violently with each sharp, shallow gasp he drew. His glazed over, dull, half-closed eyes stirred not and hardly seemed to take notice of his human companion as Aragorn set aside his dagger and knelt close to draw the arrow.

The Dùnadan's dark, sharp eyes glanced up to meet Eowyn's and Gimli's eyes and held them in that one, still moment that seemed to freeze and linger on into uneasy silence for an eternity. 

Then Aragorn nodded once more, then took a deep breath as he steadied himself, tightened his grip on the thick, bloody shaft and prepared to pull the shaft out. In the back of his mind, he knew Legolas's life could be saved or ended right now depending on how he drew out the arrow- _if_ indeed he could draw out the arrow. He hoped to Elbereth that he could…Either way, Legolas's suffering would hopefully be ended within seconds.

His own heart pounding a rhythm in his ears as loud, heavy, and thudding as the pounding of the battering rams against the wooden gates overhead, Aragorn mentally began to count…

_One_…

In that second, his eyes darted swiftly from the dark shaft buried in his Elven comrade's chest to his Dwarven companion's anxious, dark face, anxiety etched into every deep line in his craggy face as he peered down fearfully at Legolas's still, deathly pale face twisted in a heartrending, frozen mask of pain. The Ranger realized how devastated Gimli would be if Legolas died. Though Elves and Dwarves were renowned for their incredible dislike of the other race, he knew that Gimli and Legolas had become fast friends during their long quest, though they both would have died rather than admit it aloud. Though the two had a tendency to jest and compete with each other frequently, Aragorn knew that Gimli would be distraught if the Elf died.

_Two_...

In that split second as his eyes darted from Legolas's death-like face to Gimli's craggy, worry worn face back to the Elf's, he wondered how he himself would cope if indeed fate should be so sadistically cruel as to take one of his best friends from him…and at the same time he noticed something else about the Elf…

Legolas's bloodstained face was not completely pale as he had previously thought. When he looked closer, he saw that the Elf's face had taken on a bluish tinge, especially around his trembling lips, which were pearled with crimson flecks of blood that issued forth from his mouth whenever he took a ragged, sharp, gasping breath through clenched teeth. Each shallow breath the Elf took seemed to cost him more effort and suffering than the last…

_A! Elbereth…_Aragorn thought in helpless dismay in that single second. _Maybe I should just end his suffering…He's in so much pain…He can hardly even breathe…The arrow might have pierced his lung…_

 But as soon such a hopeless, dismayed thought entered his mind, he banished it and shook his head firmly. Perhaps Legolas would die; perhaps he wouldn't. His fate hung in the balance in that very second in his human companion's hands. If he drove the arrow into his companion's heart, the Elf would die for sure. But if he took a risk and attempted to draw the arrow from the wound, the Elf had a chance, even if it was just a slim chance, to live. There was only one way to find out what would happen for sure…

_THREE.___

Gritting his teeth, Aragorn tightened his grip and pulled the arrow shaft in one swift, smooth motion. Legolas cried out sharply as a new, searing, burning, tearing pain erupted in his chest and jerked back violently as the thick Uruk shaft, its pointed, ragged-edged head dark with his own blood, slid free of the deep gash in his chest, allowing more blood to blossom freely out of the wound. 

At the same time, he gasped, his shallow, ragged breath catching in his throat and causing him to hack up blood violently and jolt. Gimli and Eowyn pushed him back down firmly onto the pallet to keep him from suddenly writhing or jerking away as he coughed and his lithe form twisted in pain.

The thick, dark, bloody shaft still clenched in hand, Aragorn sank back, slightly stunned at what he had just done, though he did well to conceal his unease as he dropped the shaft that had nearly ended his friend's life and fumbled in his pocket with slightly trembling hands. He drew out an old wooden smoking pipe that had had its bowl broken off long ago. It was a useless, crude instrument no use to him, though the Dùnadan still carried it with him wherever he wandered on his long journeys. Perhaps it would finally be of use to him now when Legolas's life hung so precariously in the balance.

Eowyn watched him work with a stolid sort of curiosity. Her grim face was set in a hardened stone mask now that she had prepared herself for what she would see; true the nauseating sight of the dark, jagged edged Uruk shaft stained a deep, dark crimson with fresh blood as it slid free of the Elf's bloody chest did turn her stomach, but she did not flinch away because she had been expecting to see it happen. She held true to her duty and braced the Elf tightly as did Gimli, making sure that he did not suddenly writhe or wrench away as Aragorn swiftly drew out the arrow shaft.  

But Eowyn was still shocked more than ever even being as hardened and prepared as she was as she watched what the warrior of Men did next. Kneeling down beside the pallet again, his dark, straggled locks of hair falling across his weary, narrowed eyes as eerie shadows danced imperceptibly over his form as he took the broken pipe in hand. Then turning back to the fallen Elf, he inserted one end of the pipe directly into the open, bloody gash in his chest, lowered his lips to the broken pipe end, and began to suck on the pipe end between breaths.

Flinching in startled horror, Eowyn's wary glance gazed sideways down at the diminutive Dwarf standing beside her. Though he did not meet her gaze as he watched his human companion work with a ghastly, grave fascination, she could tell that he was slightly unnerved by this method of healing.

When Elendil's heir began to taste the bitter, copper-like, warm, sticky tang of blood in his mouth, he drew back and spat it out, coughing, before muttering, "Help me turn him on his side…"

With Gimli and the Eowyn's help, Aragorn gently rolled the wounded Elf on his right side. As they did so, a dark crimson flow of blood drained out from his wound through the pipe and spread over the cold, darkened, damp floor of the cave, his own blood mingling with the groundwater that dripped steadily down from the stalactites above.

Both companions felt slightly faint as they watched the excess blood from Legolas's wound spread across the ground. Gimli's beady, dark eyes widened in silent horror and Eowyn looked away, feeling her stomach lurch at the gruesome sight, as Aragorn reassured them, his low voice a bit softer and fainter than usual as he took a second to catch his breath, "I just drained off the blood that had collected on his lungs, pressing down on them. He wouldn't have been able to breathe for much longer otherwise…"

He peered over the Elf's shoulder, watching until the dark scarlet flow of blood soon tapered off from the gash in the Elf's chest. Then Aragorn picked up the discarded shawl on the ground beside him and tore a thin strip of cloth from it before he gently, carefully eased Legolas down onto his back as he removed the pipe from the open gash in the trembling Elf's heaving chest, set it down, then inserted the torn piece of cloth into the wound with the slow, deft, meticulous movements of an experienced healer.

As he bandanged the open gash, the Ranger murmured, "Gimli, raise him up a little. I need to finish bandaging the wound…"

Grunting and muttering under his breath, Gimli inclined the Elf with some effort, considering that although Legolas was light, he was nearly twice as tall as his Dwarven companion. Seeing the stout Dwarf slightly struggling with his task, Eowyn assisted him, slipping her arms under the Elf's shoulders to help incline him.

While they did this, Aragorn quickly took the tattered shawl and slid it under and around the Elven archer's torso, securing the makeshift bandage by tying the tattered, long ends of the linen shawl together firmly, yet making sure that it was just loose enough to allow him to breathe unhindered.

Once he had done this, Aragorn gave Gimli and Eowyn a quick nod to signal him that he was done. With a grunt, the Dwarf slid his burly arm out from beneath his companion's shoulders, allowing Legolas to sink back down on the pallet. The Elf's eyes were partially closed with a far off, lifeless look in them, and his skin gray and blood stained. 

Eowyn noticed the deathly pallid tinge to the Elf's skin as she peered uneasily over Aragorn's shoulders. Her eyes trailed down to the dark, bloody arrow shaft that had been cast aside next to the pallet. Warily she knelt down to pick up the arrow, touching it gingerly with her trembling fingertips as she touched the hot, sticky blood coated thickly upon its dark, thick shaft as she raised it up to eyelevel as she studied it closely. Her vigilant, hard eyes ran up and down its length from the feathered end, black as the dark steeds of the Nazgûl, to the bloody, jagged edged arrowhead. 

As she beheld the evil arrowhead that had nearly ended the Aragorn's companion's life, she could not fight off the chilling specter of anxiety that clenched her mind in an icy, ghostly grip forebodingly as she examined the arrowhead with a hard, intense gaze.

Her growing unease as she examined the malevolent, deadly shaft with a critical, piercing gaze made her voice what she feared.

"Milord, what if the arrow is poisoned?" Eowyn asked, her voice quiet and grave, as she cast her anxious eyes upon the heir of Isildur as he tended to his fallen companion.

Aragorn twisted around to face her, shaking his dark, straggly locks of hair out of his face as his stormy grey eyes met her cerulean eyes. The lines and creases wrought of weariness from battle and tension deepened as he was lost in deep thought, the grim solemnity of his expression exaggerated dramatically in the flickering, unsteady firelight that was wont to cast heavy, pressing shadows upon the dark figures in the caves. His expression was one torn between trepidation and deep sorrow as he considered this, something that he himself had been thinking of even before the shield maiden of Rohan had voiced it.

Casting his dark eyes down, he murmured, "So it may be. He seems all right now, but poison is an unpredictable fiend at best. Even the strongest poison may take some time before its ill effects begin to show. No way do I have of knowing right now if the arrow was poisoned or not. If indeed fate should have it that the arrow was poisoned, the poison should start showing its ill effects soon. But if it is-"

At that moment, the Ranger was cut off by a sudden eruption of hysterical screams rising to a frighteningly sudden, shrill crescendo with a blood chilling noise like that of a cage of trapped wild birds all shrieking desperately in discord as they tried to escape. Out of this intensely loud clamor, Aragorn, Gimli, and Eowyn all heard one phrase cried over and over again.

"They've broken in! They've broken in at last!"

Instinctively, Aragorn leapt to his feet, drawing Andùril, Flame of the West, whose steely, silver blade gleamed and blazed with the brilliant, white fire that far out shown the dimly flickering torchlight, a radiant, fierce, burning light born out of sheer battle lust and the adamant will to vanquish the evil enemies. So formidable and terrible did the heir of Isildur look in the gloomy, dark caves amongst the huddled masses, standing tall and proud like a stately king of yore, that some women shrank back from the sight of him. Their eyes were dazzled by the appearance of this kingly warrior of Men in their midst; so brave and ferocious did he appear that for one second, their fear of Saruman's army vanished.

Still blazing with his sudden vicious battle lust that had descended upon him so swiftly like a raging tempest at sea, he turned back to Gimli and Eowyn, for once making the bold woman warrior quail slightly at the formidable sight of him, a fearful, apprehensive light in her eyes.

 "Come, Gimli! The hour of battle is late! We must go now to aide the Men of Rohan in their darkest hour!" he called, his voice low and strong. It sounded completely different than it had a moment ago. Gone was the thick, desperate sorrow laden tone and weariness of battle that had lain heavily upon his voice like a weighty blanket of snow upon the slender, delicate, supple, bending branches of a sapling in winter. Replaced in it was a new, strong, adamant tone of voice. It was the unwavering voice of a warrior seized in a fierce, blinding battle lust, the voice of a king who would fight for these people who he had vowed to help stand down their enemies and avenge his sorely wounded companion. 

To Eowyn, he turned and held her vigilant eyes, blue and clear as twin ponds in the fair forest realm of Lòrien, in his fierce, unwavering, desperate gaze as he spoke solemnly. "Milady, I go now to battle with my companion. Fate shall decide whether we shall return alive or not as we go to aide your people in this dark hour. Whether we shall return alive or not, I ask that you would be so gracious as to look after my wounded companion after we depart, to watch for signs of poisoning that may show."

"But my lord," the lady of Rohan replied, taken aback by his sudden ardent lust for battle, "little indeed do I know about the arts of healing. I am much more at ease with handling a sword and dealing with an enemy in battle than I am at handling herbs of healing and dealing with the wounded. But I shall stay with my people and your companion, and I will guard them by whatever craft I can until this battle is over or until wrongful death take me. I shall not leave them else." 

As she spoke, her voice was strong and steady as the vicious strokes of the icy, death-tipped blades of the remaining warriors as they desperately sought to fight back the unyielding waves of Orcs and Uruk-hai that were pouring into the breached gates of Helm's Deep down towards the caves. There was a steely, hardened glint in her eye as the shield maiden of Rohan spoke with a decidedly determined, resolute calmness that belied the cold fear that gripped her fast-beating heart.

Aragorn gave her his deep gratitude as he turned to leave for battle, his blade drawn and thirsty for the bitter taste of the blood of the enemies storming Helm's Deep. Before he turned away to rejoin the perilous battle at this late, dark hour, Eowyn offered him her last reassurance when she bade him farewell.

Swallowing hard, she went on calmly, "And if there are…lingering effects from his wound, I-I will try to find a healer for him." She added with a half-hearted reassurance, "But for the present time, he appears to be fairing well, milord. He is peacefully 

sleeping-"

Aragorn wheeled around abruptly, his eyes flashing with such a dangerously fierce fire that the old healer recoiled in fear. Gimli had already run ahead of him, bounding up the stone stairs as fast as his stout, heavy, Dwarven legs would allow him to, wielding his great axe before him, eager to avenge Legolas's near fatal wound that was still potentially deadly as before. 

"Milady, what do you mean? He is sleeping with his eyes closed?" the warrior of Men demanded, trying to tone down the blazing intensity of his voice born of a new, cold anxiety that chilled him to the bone and turned the blood coursing through his veins to ice water as frigid as a blizzard in the Caradhras.

Taken aback by Aragorn's sudden ferocity, Eowyn replied uneasily, hesitantly, "Well, yes, milord. Just look." She gestured over her shoulder at the Elf's still form.

And indeed as he gazed upon Legolas's still form, his face pale as death itself and beaded with sweat, his lips slightly parted as he struggled for shallow breath after shallow breath, his fair hair clinging to his damp face, he saw that the Elf's Vilya blue eyes were closed and stirred not nor fluttered. He was so absolutely still and frail looking that if Aragorn did not see the unsteady rising and falling of his bloody, bandaged chest, he would have thought that the Elf had suddenly died.

"Lord Aragorn," she said softly as she peered up at him apprehensively, "what is wrong?"

Aragorn shook his head solemnly as he replied grimly, "Milady, those of Elven kind do not sleep in the ways of Men with closed eyes. The only time I have ever seen an Elf sleeping with his eyes closed was in death." He closed his eyes as he murmured a soft, low plea to the Lady Elbereth, lady of the stars, "_A! Elbereth Gilthoniel, _tira_ __Legolas __ar__' _vara___ ho __yassen__ kalinalle…*"_

Then the warrior of Men turned away, a new, dark anxiety clouding his face as he ran to join the battle to defend Helm's Deep against Saruman's intruding army, knowing very well that when he returned, his Elven companion could be dead. To him and Gimli, that would mean the difference between a victory and a great, profound loss…

~*~*~*~*

* "Ah! Elbereth Gilthoniel, watch over Legolas and protect him with your light…"


End file.
